


The Office on 33rd Street

by SassSexandSmut



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Private Investigators, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7597822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassSexandSmut/pseuds/SassSexandSmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dana Scully, Private Eye. Monica Reyes, psychic detective. That's what it says on the door. When the door's open, they solve mysteries. When the door's locked, they're nobody's business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Office on 33rd Street

"You think we should take his case?" Scully dragged from her pipe and puffed out a ring of smoke that framed Reyes's face like a portrait. Dana Scully didn't believe in keeping pictures—they never told a whole story, so she captured her memories in kisses and smoke rings and hoped she wouldn't come to more trouble than she sought.

Monica Reyes shrugged, and Scully passed her the hand-carved pipe. "I couldn't read much off him. He seemed genuine, though."

She perched on the corner of Scully's desk—there was always space for her there, between the bourbon and the .33 caliber—and snaked her arm around Scully's small shoulders, leaning in to kiss her.

Scully held up her hand. "Secretary doesn't leave for an hour.”

"I locked the door."

They even kept the bedroom locked in their own flat. There was always the threat of being discovered, and while neither Scully nor Reyes would deny that they thrived on trouble, some battles weren't worth fighting. So they were business partners when the office door was unlocked, and when it was locked they were nobody's business.

"I thought the lock was broken,” Scully questioned and cocked an eyebrow. 

"I fixed it," said Monica simply, her lips parting in a self-satisfied smirk. "That merits a reward, don't you think?"

Scully grinned, turning Monica around until she sat, legs crossed like a "proper lady" on the edge of the desk, staring into Scully's mischievous eyes.

"Oh, it does," Scully whispered, setting down the pipe and tugging open a couple buttons on her blouse. Monica grinned and leaned in for a kiss, and this time she found no resistance. She opened her legs to allow her proper, Catholic woman to step between them.

"Look at that," she murmured slyly, bumping her nose against Scully's forehead. "I'm still taller."

"Shut up," Scully replied before silencing her with a nip to her neck.

"Then again," Monica murmured into Scully's brow, "when is anyone shorter than you?"

"Fuck you," whispered Scully fondly.

Reyes licked her lips. "Please."

Monica smirked and captured her tiny spitfire's lips once more, her fingers trailing to the waist of Scully's skirt, untucking her blouse. Scully was buttoned up compared to the average PI; she kept her hair in place and wore sensible shoes, smoked more and drank less. But she could hold her liquor as well as anyone.

Scully's eyes sparkled as she gazed at Monica, raking her eyes down the body of her partner.

"I'm counting on your sixth sense to tell me if someone's going to come knocking," Scully said, her lips working their way downward to leave a mark on Monica's collarbone, just below the hem of her shirt—the shirt that came off in a flash when Scully decided she wanted it gone.

"You can count on me, babe."

It was a hot day in a small 33rd street office, the window open only to let out some of the smoke from Scully's pipe and the tension sparking between them.

As the afternoon had worn on, their clothes had begun to itch.

Monica shifted against the desk and pulled the small PI even closer into her.

"You can do more than that to me." She nibbled on Scully's ear

Scully pulled Monica to stand without breaking contact. She spun her around and pinned her to the office wall. Her lips grazed Monica's neck as she reached around her for the record player, and a trumpet rose to a soft whine. There was something about the dark, slow blues that drew them in; it was a song they could dance to but never a song that folks danced to in public. Reserved for locked doors, for two women whose dances held so much risk.

Scully fumbled with Monica's buttons, finally giving up and ripping them apart. They would stay the night here in this dim, dusty office, no doubt, wearing away the undue stress of loving each other day-to-day with sex, smoke, and bourbon like every private eye did.

Monica's response was to be slightly irritated, because she liked that damn shirt, but highly aroused at her woman getting so impatient with her office wear.

Scully tossed Monica's shirt behind her, letting it fall, ruined, to the carpet. Frantically, she tugged at the clasp of her underwire, her other hand settling on Monica's lower back, her lips inches from tanned skin. 

"What is your extra sense telling you now?” she murmured, her voice rich and husky, fresh from her pipe.

Monica sighed and pulled her closer. "Your clothing seems to be blocking the signals; perhaps we should rectify that." 

She grinned as Scully threw her own blouse and bra over her head, undone and unhooked in only a couple of seconds, and she pulled Scully's bare chest toward her, breathing her in for one precious moment.

It was August of 1942, the hottest summer on record; every stench in the street was magnified tenfold. To other folks Dana Scully smelled of coffee and tobacco, and on the street, Monica could never stand so close to smell the gunpowder on her skin.

On the street, Monica kept her eyes forward, tuned out the rumbles and seductive low notes in Scully's voice that sang like good blues. She kept her nose turned up and made sure her gaze lined up with Scully's eyes and not her nipples.

This wasn't the street, and these blinds she was pinned against didn't open.

Dana Scully was blessed with perfect breasts, as far as Monica was concerned, and she treated them as such, her hand lavishing one with attention while her lips left a mark on the other just low enough to be covered by a shirt.

With a soft moan, Scully finally unfastened Monica's bra and let it crumple to the floor, returning the careful attention she had received with the knowledge that her height put her at eye level with Monica's kiss-spattered neck and lip level with her olive-skinned breasts.

"Never lost that New Orleans tan, did you?" Scully wiggled her eyebrows. Their relationship was one of wit and casual teasing; they defined it physically because they were not permitted to give it a name out loud. They left themselves behind as lovers when they dressed for work, transforming into business partners, and the only thing that remained was the equal ground they stood on. The only continuity between the two lives they led was give-and-take. Hovering between those lives in their office, Scully's teeth left marks on her lover's breasts that mirrored those on her own, akin to the rings they didn’t want but resented that they couldn’t have.

Scully glanced at her watch. "Looks like we still have forty-five minutes to kill," she said mischievously. "Damn shame we won't make it to the bedroom." Her eyes turned to the couch.  
"You suppose our clients have any clue what that couch has been through?"

Monica bit her lip and shook her head, detaching herself from the wall. She hooked her thumb into the waistband of her skirt and panties and pulled, letting them drop at her feet, and stepped out daintily. "I think it can take more."

Still dressed sharply from the waist down, her bare nipples hardened in the over-heating office, Scully let out what could only be described as a feline growl, her lips scarlet in the tungsten lamp-light. She pushed Monica toward the couch with no resistance. From here, settling smugly into the sofa cushions, Monica resembled a Greek statue.

A Greek statue on the way to orgasm, Scully mused in satisfaction, kneeling beside her in the office that seemed to grow tighter by the minute.

Her piercing blue eyes lifted for one second to meet Monica's, she trailed kisses along her lover's thigh, lining up her marks like only Scully could. In the hollow of her hip, Scully bit softly, claiming the sensitive spot as her own. Monica whimpered in pleasure, still quiet as not to alert the secretary of their activities.

Her teeth claimed another spot on the inside of Monica's thigh, inching their way to her center. Scully liked to play, to draw things out and let Monica teeter on the edge of orgasm for just a moment to listen to the hitch of her breath.

Scully parted Monica's legs further with a glint in her eye, and her tongue traced circles over Monica's clit with practiced skill. Monica moaned, and she arched her back, her chest rising in the telltale hitch of her breath.

Leaving her tight and swollen, teased to the edge of an orgasm but not yet pushed over, Scully licked her lips and raised her head to smirk knowingly at Monica, who only mutter, "Dammit Scully," her incoherent sounds lasting longer than her words.

"Do you want me?" Scully inquired, her wet lips quirked playfully and her eyebrow cocked like a loaded .33.

Monica lifted her chin. "Right now," she commanded breathily, and Scully crawled atop her like a cat trying to wake her from a dream.

Scully kissed her lips first, tongue grazing her teeth, and then returned to her breasts as her finger found its way to her folds. Scully wasn't playing anymore. She pushed one expert finger inside, then two, curling and thrusting inside her like no Louisiana man ever had.

She rode out the orgasm in a constant effort to keep quiet—she could be loud later, when they had a bedroom, and no one knew just who was inside.

Still, she moaned and whimpered and Scully looked up, her teeth closed gently around Monica's pink nipple, and Monica could see the arousal and satisfaction in her eyes.

Settling finally, she sank back into the couch as if she’d been falling from the sky and a parachute had just opened.

"Quite a dame," said Scully. "You're a damn fine sight right now, you know that?"

"Speak for yourself."

Scully nipped at her breast a final time, before Monica flipped her over, still trembling and a buzz still in her head. She fingered Scully's waistband and pulled down her sleek black skirt. "Your turn," she crowed, her fingers teasing Scully through the seams of her panties.

"Take it all off," Scully smirked, red bottom lip between her teeth, and waved at the garments that separated her skin from her lover's lips. Monica's knees rested on either side of her thighs as this marvel of a woman gave her more love and joy and pleasure than the finest pipe could provide.

It was the summer of 1942, and Dana Scully, PI lay naked on her office couch as blues wailed from the window. Just loud enough, just tense and beautiful enough to mask the dance that went on in the foggy, orange-lit office on 33rd street.

**Author's Note:**

> Find our tumblrs at: Allaboutthatgillybox, GilliansBoobs, Maybe-if-it-rains-sleepingbags, MedicalDoctorDana, mypinkandyellowrose, and poeticsandaliens.


End file.
